Mea Culpa
by Daianta
Summary: Dean struggles with his mentality. Was Cas ever real? Had he simply imagined the angel? He can't find a grip on the real world. Two shot. Destiel.
1. Dean

**Mea Culpa**

"_My fault"_

Daianta/KeenaCab

_Um. Please don't kill me. I think this is my reply to 7.17. I haven't seen it, but I've heard enough about it. Been experimenting with differing writing styles, this is a lot different to my normal style. I like it._

I don't own Supernatural, otherwise none of this would have happened.  
>Dedicated to Lozi 3<p>

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><p><strong>Dean<strong>

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><p>Time is a concept that has no meaning. Time to me is irrelevant. It is something I do not need. It is me and my brother, Sammy, just the pair of us. And then Bobby and later it is Cas.<p>

I come to rely on Cas in more ways than one. He is a friend. He is a mentor. He is a villain and a lover wrapped in a trench coat.

The more I consume him, the more I want to throw him away. He is not human; he can not do wrong. He cannot do right. I do not trust him, but I place my life in his hands.

Castiel the angel takes up my time. My brother grows jealous, but he is simply being a petulant child. He has had lovers of differing types; Castiel feels like my soul mate. His hands are like fire in a glacier, his eyes are like felt tip blue scribbled lovingly by a child to their parents. His emotions are ones that I can easily read, whose true intentions are hidden beneath layers of himself built up over the years.

He has hands that can kill, but they lovingly burn over my flesh. I allow these touches; no other person is welcome. In my brain, it is me and him. The pair of us do what we want. His kisses are death, a flower that blooms in my chest and dies when he moves away. He is not human, and I find myself hating that. I want someone who would grow old with me. Someone who would not be abused by the thoughts of others. He is a criminal; he is wanted.

I feel as if I cheat on him by refusing to call him. He is an angel, indeed, he has his own life to take care of. He has friends, acquaintances, family. I have none of these things. I have Bobby and Sam and Castiel. I feel jealous that he has a life I cannot have. I long for parents. I long for friends that are not hunters. I want a regular job, a regular salary, not living off the scraps the earth tosses us like wild dogs.

Truth be told, I am tired of such a life. But it is the angel of the Lord, Castiel, that helps me see some light in this world. His hands, of death and fire and loving and hate, guide me when I need it; punch me into submission when I am being difficult. He has given up so much for me, but I too, have given up happiness for him.  
>He is quick to judge, I am quick to anger. We argue and we fight. We have make up sex to compensate. We spend nights curled up in the Impala merely touching each other with our mouths while Sam sleeps in a motel room, safe.<p>

But Castiel no longer comes when I call. He is absent, the moon missing from the sky. The stars weep for his return, but he does not answer. I whisper to him that I love him and I need him; words he ate like cotton candy at a fair when taken from my lips. I scream and cry myself hoarse, but he still does not show. It is like losing the hand of a clock; I am aware of the minutes but not the hours, their little hands curling themselves in my hair and in my voice and disturb me, lead me to words I would not have hummed otherwise, clammy and cold on themselves. It is a sin to curse an angel but I do it anyway. He still does not answer my prayers.

He may have many faces, but he is still the same. I call him, catch his arm on the street as he strides past me, not even a flicker of recognition. He is hiding from me. I turn him to me but he is confused; his face has changed again and it is not him. I let the man go and he rushes away, leaving me cold and alone again.

I do not know how I can go on like this. Cas feels like a memory; a dream. I question his reality. Was he simply something I made up?

Sam and Bobby are not there either. They leave me to question Castiel, Angel of the Lord by myself, and I suffer. I burn myself, cut myself, bleed myself clean from the memory of him. He was not answering my prayers because he was never there.

I turn to drink. The acids that poison me are sweet tasting, much like the feel of _his_ mouth on mine. I yearn for that feeling again. It is in the dark of night that I can still feel his lips, his tongue, the feel of the man flush against me. It is in the night that I know he is real. In the day, I am reminded that I am alone. He is not there, he never was.

The clock winds itself harder in my hair. I bite my lip and rub the cuts on my arms and continue as if he never happened. As if I was never happy. Castiel is a drug and I am addicted. I am in withdrawal. I am incomplete without him and yet he ignores me.

I find myself attracted to heights. Castiel liked to fly. He liked to be high in the sky, observant, a sentry and a gargoyle and a spirit and I worshipped him as such. He was my God. My protector.

I stand on the roof, insanity rooted deep in my skull. It drips down my spine, infecting my other organs, turning them black and dark. I can see them under my paper-thin skin, pale as moonlight. He cannot see how much he has affected me. Red slashes are prominent red against my arm; the reminder that I am human and I do feel and I was not imagining him. My mouth is filled with half wishes and curses. I am unsure of which will fall first. Me, or the words. They are my weakness. Words fight me, hands grabbing my teeth to prevent themselves from falling. I allow them to stay.

My foot hovers over the edge. I test the waters, feel the weight of myself against the openness of air. I struggle for balance. I do not know if Castiel would want me to fall, or would be behind me, pushing me to jump. The angel on my shoulder.

Oh Castiel. If only you could see how close I was to Heaven.

I am confused. Jump. Don't jump.

The words jumble again, this time in my brain. I fight, my heart and my brain team up to wrestle control from me and they battle amongst themselves. Each path they carve leads to the same result.

I take my foot away from the edge.

In my periphery I can see Sammy. He is in the back of my mind, I note. He is not here. He is still on the ground, still with people he knew. I cannot remember the last time I saw him. Was he unreal too? I cannot remember what his voice sounds like.

I panic.

My foot hovers over the edge again.


	2. Castiel

**Mea Culpa**

"_My fault"_

Daianta/KeenaCab

_Did he jump? Did Cas find him?_

Don't own Supernatural, sadly.

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><p><strong>Castiel<strong>

Dean Winchester does not appreciate what I do for him. He is an amalgamation of hate and love, and I curse him for it, but revel in the touches he gives.

He does not listen, he does not speak. He does not shut up, he listens to too much.

He is hot and cold. His soul sparkles like the sun on the surface of the sea. His body is a sea demon just under that surface, dark and menacing. But real.

I can touch him and he can touch me. I reach Nirvana in his presence, but cast my face from my Father. He would be ashamed.

But I cannot bring myself to see _him, _the Elder Winchester brother. He causes me physical pain; it burns and it feels good. He is my oxygen mask on a plane as it careers into a dangerous descent that can't be avoided. He is my life-raft that anchors me to the ground.

I fear falling. He made me fall. I was busy, he thought he was going insane. I had not left him for good. I had been saving him from himself.

I am covered in black. It coats me like a second skin, permeating deep. I am naked, removed from my clothes. It feels good. But the black covers my eyes and renders me blind. I cannot see Dean, I cannot feel him. His voice is muffled, his scent is blocked.

My mind is not my own. It is used, cursed against my will. I fight it with weak fists and weaker words, but I do not win. I hear the voices of the dead cry out as I muffle them, but it is not my will that does so. I am merely a tool, like always. First to Dean Winchester then to the blackness. I wonder who treated me more fairly. It. Him. It does not matter, for he does not care for me any longer.

I can feel his foot hovering on the tower, the ground extending fat arms to try to coax him down, a Cheshire grin as it taunts him. It is dark, Father, and I cannot see. I long to find him again, hold him close. It does not work. I do not wish him to jump, I will him away from the edge.

In the darkness I feel him, and I die too.


End file.
